


CURTAIN

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-31
Updated: 2006-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-19 17:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12414717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: 1971 to 1981. [Marauder Era]. A series of vignettes hidden behind curtains of time are in the spotlight again. And the stage is set for a saga of fluff and silk, smoke and fire.





	1. Sea Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

#  Title: Sea Fever

** Pairing: ** Lily/James  
**  
Author: ** Dr. Fawkes ****

** Disclaimer: ** Yeah. Yeah. I’m J.K. Rowling, and I’m writing these one-shots because I’ve nothing better to do. And if you believe that, you deserve a special place in Mrs. Norris’s rice bowl. ****

**Theme:** Ah, the fluff of romance.... 

** Summary: **   
Lily and James, all alone on an old forgotten side of the sea beach, and resting under a shady umbrella…. What happens next? Nothing much, just pure fluff.

  


#  **SEA FEVER**

 

 

 

  
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

 

  
” _I must go down to the seas again.”_

_ ~John Masefield _

 

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

 

  


 

 

  
James likes to recline back on the golden sands of the Xanadu Beach, and watch Lily’s fairy-like fingers as they dance across the strings of her guitar. He also likes to catch Lily’s wrist now and then, clasping a kiss to it and whispering her name, ever so softly.

“What would you like to hear today, M’ Lord?” she asks him, running her long index finger lightly over his stubble, and he hides his shiver with a shrug.

“Something bright and chipper, perhaps. Like the sun above us,” he says, looking heavenward. 

…

…

When Lily sings, it seems to James that time stands still, and all of Nature falls into a blissful siesta. James always loses himself in her soft silver voice, as if his soul was but a young dream, hovering and somersaulting across the blue sky with its giant wings, merrily chasing the clouds hither and thither.

Lily is humming now, in that poignant, haunting voice of hers; a song about two young seagulls building their first nest. James recalls this song to be one of Sirius’s eternal favourites. _Gypsy music_ , Sirius calls it. James doesn’t know much about music, but as long as Lily has a song upon her lips, he can never know the meaning of discontent.

The white birds above them have heard her; they watch her in curiosity, linger behind in awe.

And suddenly, it strikes James with the intensity of a supernova, that they are alone on this forgotten beach, all _alone_ beneath a lazy midsummer blue sky. They are all _alone_ by the laughing sea, and she belongs to _him_.

A surge of pride submerges him, and he looks fondly at the wedding ring on his finger, not even two months old. 

He remembers the encoring chants of the guests at their wedding, their gay cries of “James and Lily”, “Lily and James”. Their names sound so perfect together, and so incomplete without the other. It is the work of Destiny, of Destiny, to allow love to blossom even amidst the monstrosity and terror of their world. 

He is struck again by the surprising lightness of his heart. Where did all the pain disappear? How did all the despair sink without a trace? The winds whisper their answer into his ears…. _Love. The reason is love_ , the winds say.

So he writes their names with a twig upon the sandy bed, _Lily and James_ , _James and Lily_. She rolls her eyes at him. Then he tries to pull her towards himself, but she knows what’s lurking in his mind, and throws an apple at him.

Her beautiful laughter spills over the pebbles, and seeps into his heart. Always.

Perhaps the sea is not very pleased, being ignored like this. For it sends a foamy wave lashing at them, washing away James’s doodles in one gigantic sweep. Lily laughs, but James scowls slightly. He doesn’t want the sea to interfere with his calligraphic skills.

Lily had once told James that the sea was an artist. _"A breathtaking blend of varied hues of purple and blue and green, brush-stroking the sands with its waves"_. And James grudgingly agrees.

The sea reflects the pale blue sky, donning clouds of five different shades of white, and being tickled by the merry winds incessantly. The sun is smiling down upon them, indulgently, permitting them this little sacred space to bury their tears and rejuvenate themselves.

A new energy ripples through his chest, setting his blood on a dizzy reel. He throws a pebble at a nearby seagull, which was eyeing Lily, _his_ Lily, with its cheeky black eyes. The stupid bird gives him a scornful look of distaste before taking off, and James turns around to grin at Lily.

“Did you see what I just did?” he asks her with a conspiratory whisper, looking so happy and boyish, as if he had not a worry in the world.

Lily continues humming and doesn’t answer him, but he knows she’s only trying to hide her amused smile. He knows, because he’s seen the corners of her mouth twitching.

He decides to teach her a lesson, by pulling off the black ribbon in her hair, in one practiced move. Her thick, lustrous titian hair cascades down to her waist, spiraling, pirouetting, like layers of rich red silk. The sun is kissing her brow, the sand lies in obeisance at her feet, there is a look of infinite mischief in her eyes, and suddenly her beauty has become too much to bear.

“I love you, Mrs. P.,” he says, his heart contracting painfully. And he gets his reward, when she wraps her arms around him, and gives him one of her rare coy smiles. He holds her as if he is afraid that she would break in his arms, yet he holds her as if afraid that he would lose her. He is timid and demanding, tender and imperious, submissive and avaricious…. He is still such a boy in so many ways, and such a man in others. She doesn’t understand how such delicious contrasts can be possible.

His mouth is on her throat, her hands are over his eyes, and she is in his arms, never to be freed again.  


_ They really must come down to the sea again. _


	2. The Serpent Beneath the Flower

**THE SERPENT BENEATH THE FLOWER**

 

* * *

**Author:**  
Dr. Fawkes 

**Summary:**  
Manipulation is an art that few can employ. Peter Pettigrew happens to be one of those chosen few…. (A Dark piece about treachery and the biggest Spy Decoy of the Marauder Era).

**Main Characters:**  
Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew

**Pairing:**  
None, Marauder Era, Sprinkles of Lily/James

**Rating:**  
PG-13, General

 

* * *

 

Peter looks around himself in undisguised awe. He has been here _so_ many times, yet each time, he has been overwhelmed by the haunting beauty of Sirius’s house. 

There is a dark whisper lurking amidst the silk curtains, the chandeliers are a dazzling electric blue, the cutlery on the table seems to be made of the purest silver. The walls are adorned by famous impressionist paintings, and the carpet is soft and feathery at the feet. The figurines arrayed on the mantelpiece seem to be of some bygone era -- are they Baroque or Romanesque -- but they are definitely made of solid gold, Peter is sure of _that_.

So _this_ is what a renegade’s house looks like…. This dark, mysterious glamour, thinks Peter, a strange, sardonic, but not unfamiliar, taste on his tongue. The kind of house that Peter can _never_ own, even if he slogs himself dead over seven lifetimes…. The kind of wealth that Peter can _never_ acquire even after centuries of unrecognized work over dull boring papers in stuffy Ministry offices….

And suddenly, Peter is choking, choking upon the bile of bitterness rising in his throat. He wants to strike, to strike with full fangs sheathed out, like a serpent beneath an innocent-looking flower, and he has never wanted anything more in this birth as a man, as a rat, as a Marauder, as a traitor let loose upon them.

“You really shouldn’t have come here,” says Sirius, his face as uneasy as his voice. “You know I’m in hiding, and people in hiding can’t afford to entertain visitors.”

Yes, Padfoot, _friend_ , you’re in hiding.  
You, who hide amongst silk tapestries and diamond nuggets, you, who hide in palaces and in gardens, amidst velvet cushions and gilded bookshelves, you’re in _hiding_. Tell me, Sirius Black, has it been _difficult_?

“Am I just a visitor then?” says Peter, feigning the quaint look of hurt that he is famous for, and which has never failed to serve his means. If that doesn’t guilt-trip Sirius into speech, then Peter doesn’t know what will. “Don’t I have the right to care about my best friend? I’d thought you’d be pleased to see me…” Peter’s hesitant voice trails off.

“Don’t be stupid. It’s lovely to see you again, of course it is” says Sirius, looking very nettled, and fingering the goblin-crafted wrist-watch that Lily had given him on his last birthday.

Peter eyes it with some resentment, because Lily has never given _him_ a watch like that, only chaste kisses on the forehead and odd-looking stationary that could have been diapers instead.

A moment passes by in silence. Or has it been a decade? Then—

“Any news from Remus lately? Have you met him, or talked to him recently? Do you know how he’s been doing these days?” asks Sirius suddenly, a darkling scowl diminishing his handsome Grecian features.

Peter shrugs, frowning slightly at the pain in Sirius’s voice, the pain that he has never once heard for himself. “Nope,” he says, and he is careful not to raise his voice above a petulant whine. “Remus has been very busy lately. He can’t even find the time to reply to my letters anymore.”

Sirius maintains a grave silence, but Peter can see that a nerve in his jaw is ticking.

_Yes,_ Peter is on the right track.

“I did see him though, last week,” continues Peter. “I saw him at The Hanged Man’s Pub. He was busy chatting with Yaxley, so I don’t think he noticed me, even though I did call out his name quite a few times—"

“Yaxley?” interrupts Sirius immediately, as expected. “Yaxley, who is Rabastan Lestrange’s cousin? _Theodore_ Yaxley, who’s been accused of killing his own muggleborn wife? ”

Peter makes a great show of squirming in his seat. “ _Wrongly_ accused,” he corrects Sirius. “Yaxley was acquitted a month ago, though I should think he was really lucky that Crouch was off duty during that trial. You know how paranoid Crouch can get whenever he has the slightest suspicions of someone being a Death Eater…”

“ _Right_ ”, Sirius grinds out, and Peter is sure that the sigh he has heard was actually an ill-disguised snort. And Peter can see his mental wheels turning, spinning, turning like a cyclone let loose upon still waters.

“I know I probably shouldn’t say this,” says Peter, his voice shaking, “but there is something decidedly fishy about how Remus has been behaving these days.”

“What do you mean?” enquires Sirius, his voice oddly strained.

“As an official of the Department of Ministry Records,” says Peter, wringing his hands fretfully, “I have come across Moony’s name more than once. He seems to have been participating quite regularly in the werewolf rallies led by Fenrir Greywolf.”

Sirius looks startled for a second, but quickly recovers.

“It’s probably some stuff for the Order,” says Sirius in his long-practiced drawl. “Don’t worry too much about it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” says Peter, shaking his head vigorously. “It’s just that I don’t like the image of Remus saying, ‘ **Give us our Blood**!’ at the Paracelsus Avenue. If he carries on like this, the Ministry might put him behind bars… Stephen Wellington, head of the Hit Wizard Squad, you know, he particularly hates werewolves, calls them ‘dark creatures’, ‘easy allies of the Dark side’, he does….”

“Total TOSH, all of it!” bursts forth Sirius, banging his fist against the table, and Peter nearly jumps up with fright.

Is it, really, Sirius? Come on, _dear_ Padfoot, you can tell me. Haven’t you been having the same thoughts lately? Does Stephen Wellington seem completely _wrong_ to you? _Does_ he?

Peter’s unmentioned, unnamed question is echoing against the walls, mocking the silence, stirring the shadows beneath the fire and the deep hollows beneath Sirius’s eyes.

“How’s little Harry?” asks Peter after a moment. It is best not to make Sirius excited pre-maturely. Peter must wait for the ripe time. ‘ _Strike while the Floo is hot’_ , as they say.  
“Did Harry like the Kids’ Gobstones set I sent him?” asks Peter.

A gentle smile lights up Sirius’s face, a smile most unlike his reckless, rough, boisterous self, and a stab of irrational jealousy bites Peter’s heart.  
Indeed, Peter is jealous of all things that make Sirius Black smile, and hates them all with a passion.

“Oh, yes, Little Prongs really enjoys playing Gobstones,” says Sirius proudly, “and he’s become quite addicted to it too, much to his mother’s dismay.”

Peter has a sudden image of Lily’s exasperated smile, Lily’s _beautiful_ smile, and he rushes to hide his scowl with a chortle.

“I must apologize to Lily the next time we meet at the Order,” says Peter. “She must really blame me for spoiling Harry.”

“It isn’t _you_ she blames,” says Sirius, still smiling, and Peter has a mad urge to wipe off his smile with a bathroom scrub. “It’s _me_ she blames… Ah, but we all know that inside, she’s so happy that we love Harry so much, she doesn’t actually mind us spoiling him.”

Peter chortles again. “James and Lily are so luck to have you Sirius,” he continues in a more sober voice, his small, beady eyes tearing up.

“No,” says Sirius. “ _I’m_ the one who’s lucky to have _them_.”

_Not for long, if I can help it_ , thinks Peter.

Sirius can’t see the bitter smile on Peter’s face, for Peter has hidden it with a subtle sniff.

“Everyone’s really worried about them,” says Peter. ‘especially Dumbledore; he’s always had a special fondness for our Lily.”

Sirius nods, but he obviously can’t trust his voice enough to speak.

“Speaking of Dumbledore, I heard from Cornelius Fudge that Dumbledore’s offered to be the Longbottoms’ Secret Keeper as well,” says Peter, secretly chiding himself for such an abrupt change in topic. He probably should have baited Sirius a wee bit longer. But never mind, Sirius can be awfully thick when it comes to the Potters, the emotional _fool_.

“But Frank didn’t agree, of course,” Peter goes on to add quickly. “He’s already made Sturgis Podmore his Secret Keeper.”

“How do you know that? How are you so sure it’s... Sturgis... who’s the Longbottoms’ Secret Keeper?” asks Sirius immediately, leaning across the table with interest, and with apprehension.

“Come on, Padfoot, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” says Peter slowly, taking his time with each syllable, giving Sirius enough time to ruminate, to chew the fresh cannon-fodder.  
“Sturgis Podmore is Frank’s closest friend and his first cousin. He’s a very powerful and reliable wizard, _and_ he seems to have gone into hiding as well. It doesn’t take a genius to figure who the Longbottoms’ Secret Keeper may be. Even _I_ didn’t have too hard a time putting two-and-two together, and you know I’m not very observant or anything…”

The chimes of the old Grandfather clock in the far corner of the room have never before jarred so loudly in the ears.

“It’s not _that_ obvious,” says Sirius, but his voice has lost its convincing, confident quality.

Peter waves his hand impatiently at Sirius, and says, “Of course it is. Come off it, Padfoot! If Sturgis isn’t the Longbottoms’ Secret Keeper – and Dumbledore definitely _isn’t_ – then who _else_ could it be?”  


“I mean, take yourself, for instance. Very few people know about the Fidelius Charm, but those who _do_ … There’s not a shred of doubt in anyone’s mind that _you’re_ the Potters’ Secret Keeper.”

Sirius gives Peter a raptorial glance from under his bushy eyebrows, beads of perspiration lining his forehead.

“What do you mean?” asks Sirius in a breathless voice.

Peter pauses for effect, and takes a swig of his tea.

“Sirius, you’re the Potters’ closest friend, you’re a _thumping_ good wizard, and you’re in hiding… Now, Remus, being a ‘werewolf’, can hardly be thought trustworthy enough to be a Family Secret Keeper, and as for _me_ … Well, I’m not being modest or anything, but I’m not exactly the kind of wand-brandishing, swashbuckling, life-saving hero, am I?  


“So who does that leave for the post of Secret Keeper? You, alone, Padfoot, _you alone_ … It’s so simple, and so _natural_ to think of you as the Secret Keeper, Sirius. It really couldn’t be anyone else.  


"The people at the Order, they don’t speak aloud of course, but they keep hinting at it, like McGonagall and Flitwick. I’ve tried to dissuade them so many times, but who am I trying to fool, really?”

Oh, goody, Peter, well done! You're pushing all the right buttons, _all_ the right ones, and soon you’ll have Sirius like a puppet on a string, squirming in your grubby little grasp, like _that._ Yes…

When Peter finally looks up from his goblet of tea, he does not fail to notice the changed demeanour of Sirius’s face.

Sirius’s eyes are glittering madly, the light from the old Arabian lamp casts hideous shadows upon his face, and there is a harsh, perplexing hint of a smile about his lips.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” squeaks out Peter. “Sirius?”

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 


End file.
